


a love of my own invention

by Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2009, F/M, Season: four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She finds him in the basement, back to the stairs, sitting cross-legged on the floor, shirtless</p>
            </blockquote>





	a love of my own invention

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted [here](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/168795.html).]

It's sunset when Jo can go look for Dean.

She finds him in the basement, back to the stairs, sitting cross-legged on the floor, shirtless. He's spread a faded shirt in front of him, something that must have been red once. The movement of the muscles on his back tells her he's cleaning his guns. In the silence, she can even hear the sound of cloth dragging against steel – his soft breath.

She stops, looks at him through the columns of the rail. She shivers in the relative coldness of the basement, pulls at her skirt where it's sticking to her legs. She knows he's heard her, not even her bare feet quiet enough for his senses to miss. She observes him to see if he's tensing, but he goes on with his business, head bent slightly to the left.

Something pulls at Jo's heart at that display of trust, and it could be joy, but Jo has stopped trying to name her feelings when it comes to Dean, too tangled in each other to understand them. Some days, she's just grateful that he's still there in the morning, hates that she spies on Sam's room on her way to the kitchen, knowing that if he's in his bed, so is Dean, that they haven't disappeared with the night.

She sits on the last step, watches unwatched.

Dean leans into the single ray of sunshine coming from the high-ceiling window when he puts something down. It's like he's coming alive, the skin on his arm golden, the hair nearly white in the bright light, the rest of him cast in shadows. She's thought of this moment all day long, a constant hum in the back of her mind. She feels herself getting wet.

"You plan on standing there all day?" Dean asks.

She shakes her head, stands, covers the three steps to join him. The floor is cool under her feet, dusty. She sits on his left so she doesn't block the sun for him, crosses her legs and they are close enough that her bare knee touches his jeans-covered thigh.

"Hot day, huh?" he asks without stopping. He has a gun in his left hand, the other covering it completely, forefinger stroking the barrel.

She makes a sound of assent, blows air through her nose and he laughs deep throat laughter, rough, a bit restless. She stares at his hands when he breaks down his pearl-handed Colt, movement economic and precise. His palms are pale, the backs of his hands scarred with new and old wounds. A swell of bright red blood on a fresh cut in the fold between thumb and forefingers makes her want to reach out and wipe it away.

"You smell of mud, Jo," he says and Jo has an answer ready on her lips, something playful that maybe will get a smile out of him, but whatever she thought of saying withers and dries when he turns toward her.

She stares at his face, at the scarred flesh where his eyes should be.

The skin's healthier now than it was at first, a pucker of darkened skin sewn together, shiny and stretched tight around his temple. She remembers when the angels dropped him and Sam at her camp back when it seemed that world was going to end. Sam screaming his head off with pain, both his legs so mangled the medic could only sew them off. She remembers Dean, too, pale but standing, his head thickly bandaged. Jo had thought, foolish girl that she was, that he was all right, up until they'd took off the bandage around his eyes and found blackened skin under it, the orbits of his eyes empty.

But after, the world had not ended anymore and that had made both Sam and Dean laugh so loudly the medic had to sedate them both.

Dean frowns, seems to sense when someone pities him, which isn't what Jo is doing, but it's hard explaining, so she looks at his jaw, his lips. He's freshly shaved, so close she can smell the mint of the shaving cream mixed with the sharper smell of gun oil, of his sweat. He's nicked his jaw again, stubborn bastard that he is, refusing Sam's help – refusing anybody's help to be honest - with a large smile that says fuck you louder than if he had shouted.

"You cut your face again," Jo says.

He shrugs, smiles a little smile. "I'm not bleeding to death, am I?"

Jo shakes her head. It would be easy letting herself become exasperated, but she's learned that it doesn't get her anywhere with Dean.

"Sam was pretty pissed earlier," she remarks, though.

Dean turns his head toward the sun, the light. His expression is thoughtful, but his voice has no heat in it. "Sam's always bitching about something, don't mind him."

"Well, he took it out on the students. He's piled them with homework."

Another laugh, crisper this time. Jo smiles, too, happy that she's got him there. Some days are just bad and today must have been pretty bad considering Sam's dark expression, his curt answers and his short temper in class. It had been hard seeing Sam as he rolled up and down in the main room, frustration in the rigid line of his mouth – the equivalent of pacing for someone that didn't have legs.

"I'll make it up to them tomorrow," Dean promises. Jo knows that he's not talking of their aspiring hunters. "Guns, it ought to make them happy."

They lapse into silence, Dean is still and attentive, head thrown upward to the noises coming from the house. Jo stares at his profile then closes her eyes and tries to sense the world like he does. Faint voices and chairs scraping the floor, heavy steps coming and going. Dean's not wearing aftershave, his sweat smells clean, of soap. The dust in the basement makes her nose twitch, damp smell under it of old spilled water. There's a draft of air coming from the window – she hadn't felt it before – it carries the scent of grass and sand. Dean's immobile beside her, she matches her breathing to his and keeps listening.

When she opens her eyes, the light has lengthened and stretched across the floor until it's hitting the far wall. She feels a drop of sweat slide slowly between her shoulder blades; it traces a sensuous path along her spine to disappear in the cloth of her panties.

Dean's hands touches her exactly there, where back meets ass, his hand is warm, palm dry and rough with calluses. She shivers, and leans into the touch, leans forward so she can starts a kiss at the corner of his lips, licks the taste of mint out of it until he opens up to her. He always waits for her permission, like this is not something Jo's supposed to want and it makes her angry that he never, ever seems to understand that she wants him, hates that she gets to have him only now, when she's not sure he would want to stay if he still had his eyes.

"You smell good," he says, tangles his finger around a lock and pulls gently. "You smell of sunshine," he whispers on her lips, smiles. He follows the lines of her face with a finger, down to her chin. "Why you keep coming back?" he asks, shakes his head immediately after like he let something forbidden slip by, covers it with a deep kiss, but Jo's heard him, she has, and she wants to beat him senseless for not getting it, for not getting her.

Kissing him back is easier and Jo's a coward when it comes to Dean, especially when he tenses under her. She want to keep him exactly where he is, so she nibbles at his neck where his scent is stronger and his skin humid with sweat. She licks the spot under his Adam's apple, tastes the saltiness of it under the tang of a smear of gun oil, puts her hand on his chest to feel his heart pushing back faintly against her palm. He melts around her hands, curving slightly on her, a murmur in her ears that may have been a thank you, but Jo's hearing's impaired by the rush of her own blood and she can't discern the words.

Dean's still solid, muscles hard even with his limited physical schedule, but the skin of his chest is soft, hairless and scattered with freckles. She licks her way to his nipples while he slips his hands under her t-shirt. His fingers freeze for a moment on the lace of her bra when she bites him hard, and then he's dragging her sideways over his legs, arm around her lower back and hand under her skirt.

She helps him when he hooks a finger inside the elastic of her panties, twists and kicks them and feels him getting hard against her ass. His jeans are chafing the tender skin there but she rubs herself against him until she drags a moan out of his lips.

Drag of fingers against her mound, a slight press, before he dips inside and this time it's her who moans, pushes herself down until she feels herself swelling around them. The angle is all wrong when she tries to unbutton his jeans but she tries and she opens them and his cock is hard, curved upward, head dark and flushed with blood. She closes her hand around Dean's wrist where it disappears under her skirt to keep him there, inside. She turns, back to Dean's chest, legs splayed open around Dean's. She sits on him fully until he's riding the crease of her ass, sweat easing the slide and drag against it. Dean fingers follow the same rhythm, in-out, up-down, thumb pressed against her clit, and Jo feels her orgasm mounting, a tingle under the soles of her feet, a shiver when he licks the sweat of her neck. She comes, then, dripping wetly on his hand, heart beating so fast she thinks it's going to come out of her ribcage.

Dean doesn't drag his fingers out, after, and Jo's still clenching and trembling around them when he pushes her onto her hands and knees. She moans, plasters herself against Dean's chest when he fucks into her from behind, the fit so tight in addition to his fingers, it rides on the edge of pain, but she pushes back against his thrust and she clenches around him so he won't go away.

He comes with a shout he muffles into her hair and his breath is humid and warm and Jo keeps him inside until he gets soft and slips out. Jo breathes in the sharp smell of his sperm, listens to Dean breathing harshly on her back.

After, he doesn't collapse on her. He gently turns her as he falls on the floor, tucks her against his side where his heartbeat still thumps fast behind his ribs and in her ears.

Jo bites her lips, keeps herself from asking all the questions she wants to ask.

She stares at the low ceiling for a long time, even after Dean's body's gone lax in sleep and the hand on her hipbone is limp. The wooden floor is hard, uncomfortable on her sore body. Dean's all sharp angles and hard bones against her side – knees and hip and the rounded cap of his shoulder under her chin.

She stares and stays and the her last thought before falling asleep to the rhythm of Dean's breathing is that she won't have to check Sam's room come morning.

\--


End file.
